We, women, are the ones who feel everything. We feel the silence that sneaks into a conversation like a warning, we feel the promises made carelessly and the deep ache when they are broken, we feel the question disguised as humor but asked with eyes desperate for the truth. We feel the betrayal and the joy, the anger that bursts unannounced, the longing, the lies, the undeniable truth. And most of all, we feel the end, always the end. Even when the world is celebrating beginnings, even when voices rise with hope, we still sense the unraveling, we still hear the sirens calling, we still carry the shadow of tragedy before it arrives. And it is always on us, the weight, the burden, the fire, the tears. We take it in, we hold it, we survive it. They tell us we are “too sensitive,” but they cannot see that this depth is our strength, not our weakness. Because every time our magnitude shrinks, every time we bend beneath the weight of what we feel, we do not break; we sharpen. We transform. We emerge stronger. This is who we are, the ones who feel too much, the ones who keep the world alive through our knowing, our fire, our courage. And we will no longer apologize for it.
And still, as we feel, as we carry, as we endure, we wear our silent crown. A crown no one notices, yet one that marks the weight of generations. It is not made of gold or jewels, but of sleepless nights, of unspoken sacrifices, of the quiet strength that never asks for recognition. It is the crown of mothers who held families together, of daughters who swallowed their own dreams, of sisters who carried burdens too heavy for their age. It is a crown invisible to the world, yet burning into our bones. And we carry it with grace. We smile while it presses viscerally into our skin. Crazy, right? Pairing words such as “smile” and “viscerally”. But this is the truth. We stand tall even when it feels too heavy to bear. For this silent crown is our inheritance, but also our rebellion; and we wear it not to be diminished, but to remind the world that our resilience is not accidental, but deliberate. Deliberate, yes. Every thorn in this crown tells a story of what we have felt, endured, and risen above. And though the world may not always see it, we know it is there. For this reason, the crown is not a burden. It is proof. Proof that we have always borne the weight of the world, and, guess what, still, we’ve never failed to rise above.
The Crown Of Adornment
The crown of adornments is not a crown of necessity but of choice, of declaration. It is the headwrap that frames our face like armor and celebration, the jewels that dangle, shimmer, and speak before we even do. Each bracelet, ring, necklace, every carefully placed thread, carries intention, be it a whisper of heritage, or a shout of rebellion, or even a declaration of self. This crown honors our bodies, our stories, our spirits. It is visible, yes, but it is also private, intimate, a language only we fully understand. Picture a woman in Ankara fabric. She becomes Ankara itself, carrying its story and heritage with pride.
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The Crown Of Devotion
The crown of devotion is not meek, not submissive, not fragile. It is forged in fire (the one we got to claim as if it were our own), in the nights we stayed when others fled, in the moments we chose to nurture when the world demanded we harden and go. Devotion is the power to keep breathing life into barren soil, to keep showing up when silence would have been easier. Silence would have been so much easier, though. But we choose to translate our soul over and over again. We call it fierce commitment; a vow made with marrow and soul.
The Crown Of Intuition
The crown of intuition is the one no one can take from us. It is the ancient voice humming in our blood, the knowing we cannot explain but can always trust. Clarissa Pinkola Estés, in Women Who Run with the Wolves, names this truth: we are not only the savior but also the wolf, the impostor, the villain, the guide. We are the full circle, the shadow, and the light. Intuition is our compass, sharpened through centuries of silence and survival. This crown sits low on our brow, whispering: you already know. And when we listen, we cannot be deceived. Only if it weren’t for the loudness of society, which constantly whispers in our ears, almost convince us to love precisely the things we despise.
The Crown Of Memory
The crown of memory holds the voices of those who came before us. It is woven with the stories of mothers, grandmothers, and forgotten women whose names were erased but whose strength still lives in our bones. This crown is an archive of pain and triumph, betrayal and rebirth. It carries the lullabies, the warnings, the wisdom passed down in gestures and glances. To wear it is to remember that we are never alone, that every choice we make is tethered to an ancestral thread, to our home. When in doubt, when feeling as if we could never belong to a place, we still have the crown of memory, and that shall be enough.
The Crown Of Reclaiming
The crown of reclaiming is the fiercest of all. It is the moment we stand tall, refusing to shrink, refusing to apologize for our voice, our fire, our brilliance. This crown is forged from the fragments of everything taken from us, our stories, our bodies, our dreams, and remade into armor. It is the declaration that we will no longer live small. Even when it is our innocence that has been taken away from us, we choose not to succumb, not to become mere crumbs. We become so large that they no longer even remember our names.
